Tink
by M Murata
Summary: Do you think Tink is a mindless little fairy floating around? Then you don't know Tink.


TINK

I put my time in, pounding the asphalt after the likes of Britney, Lindsay, Miley, and even Bennifer, until JLo spiked me with a high heel - got the scar on my shin to prove it. But paparazzi no more! I'm an official stringer now, and I'm here to tell you that standing inside with the A/C on, waiting for Tink to arrive, beats getting elbowed by a ton of other street monkeys with cameras while jockeying for a money shot. Just me and my handheld.

Okay, not just me. There's a dozen screaming pre-teens, the lucky few who've been chosen by some national send-your-name-in-to-our-mailing-list hoo-haw, and we'll pick twelve of you brats to fawn over the celeb in person. Only Tink is twenty-eight minutes late and counting.

The manager's on the couch on the raised part of the floor, not changing expression. What does he care? Tink brings in $800 million a year in merchandising to the corporation. Balding and bullet-headed, he gets paid if his cash cow is on time or not. The pre-teens are behind their velvet rope, I'm at my mark, but no -

Wait, that side door's opening. And Tink strides in. Well, not striding. Stumbling. Kind of wobbly. Can't be the doorway, it's cut to accommodate her fairy wings. Oh, great googly-moogly. That's a champagne glass in her hand.

In the old days, maybe two weeks ago, I would've wet my pants over this. Celeb, champagne in the morning, pre-teens. Cha-ching. Go to the tabloids, ask for cash. A thick wad of it, right over the barrelhead. But I'm not that anymore. I'm a stringer.

Blonde hair in cross-cut bangs, but it's a mess. Silver top with beads. Fuchsia spandex pants. Fuchsia? Riding so low, if she turns around, it'll show off her . . . . Some twitchy guy behind her actually reaches down and pulls her pants up. Must be her handler.

No one else notices. We're too busy getting our eardrums shattered by the pre-teens. Did I say they were screaming before? No, that was just like planting your ear right up against the A/C. This is like sticking your head inside a 747 engine.

Now the handler's trying to grab the champagne glass from her hand, but Tink's not having any of it. The mini-struggle makes her take a step towards me and my handheld. Scent like a flowery meadow rolls off of her. Shaky, she walks towards the velvet line and waves at the brats. Did I say 747? Now it's the space shuttle.

I don't believe it. They're quieting down. How? What's she saying?

"I'll spend time with each and every one of you." Scrawny voice. Rumor is, Julia Roberts dubs in for her. "Sorry I'm late, I'm so retarded about these things."

The handler's about to twitch out of his skin. He rushes forward. "No offense meant against Down's syndrome or other challenged persons."

Tink looks confused. "Well, yes. I'm just stupid for being late." None of the girls notices the exchange. Their eyes are rolling back, gazing up at those delicate fairy wings, the tips of them high above that yellow hair.

She pats one of them on the cheek. "It's just that I'm not used to your drinks here. Ooh, those bubbles." She's noticed the couch with her manager on it and is toddling over.

The handler finally gets the champagne glass away from her. Then he claps his hands at some girl with a clipboard who's been following him around. "A bluebell and buttercup smoothie, extra tall! And make sure the yogurt is non-fat!"

The girl rushes out, like her clothes are on fire. Tink gestures after her. "No, I didn't mean . . . . I'm fine, really." She settles down. I've got to say, she's impressive in person. Perfect complexion. I mean Sarah Michelle Gellar perfect. Large, innocent eyes. Well, a little bloodshot, but that can be cleaned up. Like I said, the hair's messed up, but man it's fascinating to look at. Not just blonde, but yellow highlighter kind of yellow. And those wings.

It's early, she's had some bubbly, but she sits on the edge of the couch to not crush her wings behind her, and she looks heavenly. Ever see an actress wearing a corset in a period drama, and suddenly she's got the posture? Well, with Tink it's natural. The real McCoy.

I pan over to the pre-teens. They're all squaring their shoulders, straightening their postures. Money shot. No wonder moms love her.

Back to Tink. Legs crossed. Delicate hands gripping the couch on either side. Her handler's right there.

"Now Tink. Do you want to tell the girls here about your next project?"

"Yes." Pause. Every pre-teen is leaning against the velvet rope, pre-adolescent sweat filling the air as they hang on every word. "What I really want is to explore more of my roots. Go back to that time when I would just glide around in forests, meadows. 'Course, I'm told we need to find some kind of interesting plot, but, I mean, that was what my life was like." She glances at the girls.

They nod and gasp in agreement. Some of them have their hands clasped in front of them, like they've reached some holy of holies. All she said was her past was boring. But she's a celeb. Every tidbit means something to the fans.

One of the pre-teens is practically quivering. "Did all you fairies spend a lot of time together on the island?"

Tink smiles. She doesn't have the real thick Angelina Jolie lips, for which I'm grateful. Hard to get the focus right when they're that big. No, she has petite lips and impossibly white teeth. "Well, despite what the movies show, we didn't really know each other until they got us together to film it. Funny, I've usually worked with humans. Then they get a bunch of us pixie girls together for a film."

The handler is whispering out the side of his mouth. "'Fairy.' It's okay to say 'fairy.'"

The manager, sitting beside her on the couch, spreads his arms in an indulgent fashion. His collared shirt has short sleeves, so we can see how hairy they are. "It's all the same. I still get mixed up about 'Oriental' and 'Asian.'"

Tink relaxes. "Oh, I know. It's so confusing. At first, when I came into this world, I would just call myself a 'fairy.' Then word came down I couldn't use that word anymore, and I had to say 'pixie.' Don't know why I went back to that, just now. Like I said, I'm so retarded. But everyone's okay with fairies now." She looks at the pre-teens. "Right?"

Not quite space shuttle level. More like the 747.

The handler's girl returns with a smoothie. Tink pops the top off and takes a gulp. "Ohh, that's good. Feels like home."

Smiling, the handler is looking less twitchy. "Okay! We're running a little behind, so we'll go right to questions from the lucky twelve. Who's got a question for Tink?"

After the deluge of "Me, me, me!" Tink simply extends her arm and makes a lowering motion with her hand. All the girls kneel.

"Don't worry, each of you gets a question." She's really good with them. I've got to say, I'm starting to think of her as a real human being. Well, a real fairy.

An intelligent-looking girl with dark hair asks, "What was it like when you broke through? When you first made contact between the matrix of your world and ours?"

Next to her, a blonde with violent blushes on her cheeks huffs. "'The Matrix'? What a gross movie!"

The other girls shout the dark-haired girl down. I can see the handler signaling for the next question. But Tink actually puts her hand on his chest, shoving him aside. Atta girl.

She shushes the room. "I know what you mean." Now it's pin-drop quiet. "You mean that moment. The moment. The one you've all heard about."

They all nod. I almost do, though I'm running my handheld. Yes, we know what she's talking about.

Tink continues. "Well, I was flying around in my world, looking for the boy with the feather in his cap. That's what I called him. Most fairies don't actually spend a lot of time around humans, but I was one of the few who did. Guess it's just because he could fly. And somehow, hanging around him made flitting around trees and flowers seem real small. So I was looking for the boy, just to bug him or something."

The pre-teens giggle.

She fiddles with the napkin around the smoothie. "And I saw Captain - I guess I'll say the handicapped captain. He was crushing some belladonna. Easy to recognize: The flowers are bell-shaped and this real pretty purple? He crushed some of it into a leather flask.

"Later, I saw the boy with the feather. He was in one of his moods, you know? So I didn't go up to him. But then I saw him grab the leather flask. It was obvious he was going to drink. He was putting it up to his lips."

The girls are gasping. Loud gasps that fill the room as their eyes get huge. The blonde girl blushes harder, if possible. "So that's when you saved him?"

Tink takes a large gulp. "Well, here's the thing. Belladonna is just another plant to us fairies. I mean, it's no different from a buttercup or some bluebell." She gestures with the foam cup. "And, and I was just goofing. You know, I said he was in one of his moods? So, before he could drink, I flew over and grabbed the open part of the flask and slurped some. It surprised him. So he dropped the flask. I still remember the irritated look on his face. It kind of crushed me. So I did fall back. Hurt my wings. Not fainting, really. But it all went bad, with his dropping the flask and looking at me like that. So that's what happened."

The dark-haired girl is speaking, but I can't break away from Tink. So her voice is off camera. "Is that when you heard the children? Breaking through to your world. Is that when you heard the clapping?"

"Don't you understand?" Tink is looking crushed now. All she can do is clutch the smoothie with one hand, the edge of the couch with the other. Tears are going down her cheeks. "Yes, it's poison for you. But, all I did was drink, and then I fell. I didn't hear any clapping."

"What do you mean?" I don't know which girl it is. I pan over, and all the girls are crying now.

The handler is as smooth as melted butter. He contorts his face into a look of sympathy. "Oh my gosh. She was so poisoned by the belladonna, she couldn't hear the clapping! She was so near death, she didn't know! She didn't know! Oh, Tink!"

The pre-teen girls shove down the velvet rope and rush forward, mobbing Tink, grabbing her arms, kissing her hands. She can't speak anymore. There's nothing she can say: All she can do is accept the wave of adulation.

After the hubbub, the rest goes smoothly. Tink spends time talking to each girl, and I focus in for a "Hi Mom and Dad" shot for each. Then it's over.

The manager goes over and clasps Tink's hands. "Another wonderful session."

Her lips move for a few moments, silently. Then she manages the words. "I'm no hero."

"You are to me."

The handler takes her out to her next event. I give the tape to the manager and pack up for the next gig. You can have your Britneys and your Lindsays. I like this Tink.

END


End file.
